


THE MAN FOR ME

by vanhunks



Series: THE MAN FOR ME - A series for JANEWAY AND PARIS [1]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 14:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6809410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanhunks/pseuds/vanhunks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does Kathryn Janeway think about when she sits in her command chair every day? She has her eyes on a certain helmsman...</p>
            </blockquote>





	THE MAN FOR ME

**Author's Note:**

> This series was written between 1998 - 2001. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Paramount owns Janeway, Paris, Chakotay and Voyager.

* * *

 

**THE MAN FOR ME**

The best thing about sitting in the command chair is the luxuries I'm afforded  to watch the senior crew go about their duties. These are moments when I can retreat into my private imaginings. while issuing orders.

I know that behind me, to my right, Tuvok would be standing at his station, impassive but always alert. Harry would be scanning on long range sensors for any warp particle he can trace that would be the key to home.

Sitting here allows me the freedom to fantasize, even as my eyes remain riveted on the main viewscreen. They aren't riveted there for long, however. As I said, I take time out to study my crew at work.

I should be so fortunate to look at Tom's back where he sits at the conn, his hands always busy tapping the panelled array, his feet pushing his stool to move from console to console, entering co-ordinates, steering Voyager through a particularly dense nebula.

If he knew he would probably laugh and say, "Have you been making love to me while my back was turned?"

I guess that would be the kind of thing Tom Paris would say, if he knew.

Maybe he does.

"You're staring, Kathryn," is the look I see in Chakotay's eyes when I pull my gaze reluctantly away from the helmsman. "At him," he adds softly.

Finding the sudden appearance of an ion trail to indicate another ship in the region seems diversion enough to hide my embarrassment. My interest is at best, feigned. Unless Tuvok informs me of any threat, that ship may well just pass us in the night. Therefore, I may safely indulge.

Yet, I am aware of Tom all the time. I try not to show it, but my heart beats at warp speed when he turns round to look at me.

Damn, there is that grin again.

"Well done, Mr Paris, continue at warp 6."

How does he do it? His eyes turn even bluer as he basks in my praise. His lips form into that quirky smile before he says, "Yes, ma'am."

I swallow, certain I'd have to check on my undergarments at the first opportunity to leave the bridge.

What I would give to feel those lips on my hair, my eyes, my lips, my neck...

There is no fairness in this universe, I think, when some fates decide somewhat arbitrarily who Kathryn Janeway should be panting after. I turn my eyes to the man sitting next to me, and New Earth becomes a blessed blur of forgotten fancies. No, my warrior will always be my warrior - ready to fight for me and support me and offer - I give an inward snort - token resistance to my decisions.

I am after all, the Captain. Not that I am overly aware of the importance of rank, but the responsibility of command has always rested too heavily on me. I take my job seriously, and Chakotay, bless him, tries to get me to relax. We work together so well that any romantic notions some might have had of Captain Janeway bedding her Maquis First Officer, are quickly squashed as we set about taking our people home. I look at Chakotay not as a man with whom there could have been untold romantic possibilities, but with friendship, such as which Plato spoke of.

Which is why I can give my imagination free rein, and feed my erotic fantasies to limitless heights.

I desire my chief pilot. There. It is out.

My body craves a knowledge of his. It wants to explore. It wants to explode at the contact and like volcanic rock burn its way into Tom's heart. That's how I feel.

I want to run my fingers through his hair and massage his neck muscles that I see him so often rubbing. I wonder whether he is really so tense from concentration, or whether he as aware of me as I am of him. No time to enter into any irrelevant discourse on the twitching of neck muscles. But, I would like to have my hands there anyway and press my fingers ever so gently against his neck, hoping that Tom would respond to my touch.

I want to kiss him, press my hips into him so that I can feel his arousal growing against my stomach.

Chakotay must have heard my moan. He looks at me with mild concern. I cross my legs as elegantly as I can manage without letting on that the delicate throbbing between my legs causes me some embarrassment as I start getting moist.

I look at my hands and see my knuckles turning white on the armrests, so hard I'm clutching to exercise control. Still, there is a hunger in me that must be showing in my eyes as I watch the way Paris sits on his stool, his butt perfectly aligned on it.

Here's me, the captain of Voyager having the hots for a hotshot pilot. My desires these days - or nights - feature Tom and me. In them he kisses me and the sensation is so tangible that I wake up with my hand stroking my lower body. I sigh. Another dream.

I suppose it must be really stupid and unwise to have these dreams which I know, would probably never come to fruition. A passing fancy? This wanting to touch him and writhe under him in my bed or his? I seriously wonder at it. To ignore it and pretend my dream can never come true is a futile exercise. There can be no moment, no single instant that I can say,  exactly _then_ it happened.

What I know is that I became gradually aware that those baby blue eyes turned my body to mush. I feel like a moonstruck teenager. It is a quiet, startling realisation without the fanfare of trumpet sounds that I want Tom, that I want his lips to burn on mine. I become aware of another new and alien emotion - I resent it when he sits huddled with Harry and B'Elanna in a corner in the mess hall. No, there was no moment of grand discovery then, no moment of blinding insight as to when exactly I discovered these feelings. Scary. To wake up one day and just feel different, new, excited at the prospect of seeing Tom walk down a corridor, nodding his head in greeting and knowing that now I've had my sustenance for the day.

I can carry on. There was no prior warning, no indication that my daily existence could be spent thinking of making love to the Chief Helmsman. There was just suddenly, one day - don't ask me when - the terrifying and quiet knowledge that I would like to go to bed that night and drag Tom Paris with me into it.

I will probably be making a fool of myself if I walk up to him and say, "Tom, care to join me for dinner?"

I'd hate to see that smirk.

I'd hate to be humiliated.

So I sit in my command chair every day and keep my fantasies where the belong: in my mind.

There's no point in arguing whether he is the right man for me, or the perfect man.

What I do know is this - he is the man for me.

END

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